


Get Around

by Seconds2Silence



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seconds2Silence/pseuds/Seconds2Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes letting yourself heal is the hardest thing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Who’s there, knocking at my window?_

_The Owl and the Dead Boy_

_This night whispers my name_

_All the Dying Children_

 

The first time Slit sees her, she’s hardly more than a fleeting shadow, moving around the corner of his vision. He cannot make out her features, his eyes clouded with Road dust, stinging still from the intense heat of the fire that was meant to consume him. She is only strange snatches of color and form; browns like the leather of his boots, white as his skin when freshly coated in paint. The next day, or maybe days as time seems to move strange slow around his head, he realizes the whites are her clothes. Billowing strips of fabric wrapped around a tiny body, small enough to hardly go noticed if her shine didn’t distract so much.

He’s taken to watching her now as she moves through the tables and slabs of the Blood Shed, assisting leather-faced women who cut and poke and burn. His eyes are still rusted and worn, but when she moves close enough, sometimes he can make out her face.

Her expressions are small, just like her. A nose, tiny and upturned. Eyes large and dark like her skin. Mouth full and puffy like a fresh scar. And he knows her, _knows_ her for what she is. She’s one of the Treasures, a prized thing of the Immortan, and she should not be there among the blood and sour smell of infection. She belonged back in the safety, in the soft places where she could continue to be soft and small and weak. And They, He, all the War Boys should have awoken to the Gates of Valhalla, as they were meant to.

He felt his staples pull as he frowned, watching the Little Treasure take measured steps between rows of the injured. Everything about this was wrong, but the women – the leather-faces with their roughened hands and no patience told him that _he_ was the wrong one. Between the times his mind slept they would tell him, explain over and over what The Immortan had done to War Boys, to the Wretched, to the Wives, and how it was wrong, unforgivable, _damning_. It made no sense as he listened to them whisper, voices scratchy from age, when they tried to get him to agree. He never would, he knew, but chose to keep himself silent.

He should have died, pinned between the War Rig and The People Eater’s ride, and he decided that disagreeing with the leather-faces would lessen his chances of being healed at all. If the death he sought was not enough to earn him Valhalla, then he would simply grow strong once more, and try again.

He reminds himself of this promise he has made as the Little Treasure approaches his side. Too late he remembers he had been watching her, and there’s no way to fake it otherwise. She doesn’t smile at him, not like the heavy-bellied Milk Mothers do, their words laced with a strange tone he’s unfamiliar with, but neither does she frown like the leather-faces do. Her face is oddly neutral, her full mouth shut, her eyelids blinking slowly.

Without a word she reaches forward, pressing her hand against his forehead.

He hisses, lifting his shoulders from the thin mattress as he does, snapping at her with his teeth. The chains around his wrists rattle and clank, stinging in his ears. The Little Treasure pulls away, her eyes growing wide at his display; but she offers no further reaction to his hostility, her words patient and slow.

“If you keep doing that, you’ll tear your stitches.”

She speaks to him like he’s a simple Pup, and it makes his insides thrash. He wants to snap his teeth at her again, maybe catch one of those tiny fingers between them and taste blood. He was no Pup, and he wasn’t stupid. He’d show her, _he’d show her_ , and-

Her palm returns to his brow, and for a moment he notices how cool her skin feels before he jerks his head away from her, growling low in his wind torn throat.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her brows pinch a little, forming a tiny crease between them, her hand still hovering over him, “I’m just checking your temperature. You’ve had an infection, and-“

“Don’t touch, filthy Soft Shine!”

His hoarse yelling attracted attention, the leather-faces coming close to hold his shoulders down, to pierce his skin with curved needles and strange tubes of fluid. He fights against them, angry that they’d try to stop him, angry that his muscles are traitors and won’t throw them away like he wants them too. But he can still thrash, still fight, even if he dimly realizes that it’s a wasted effort. He doesn’t care about escaping their hold, not really – all he cares is that She hears him, that She knows.

She’s backing away, and he catches the deep frown on her mouth before she steps too far back for his vision to clearly focus. He’s upset her, and he feels pride bloom in his chest like it did Before, and he knows his laughing sounds hysteric but he doesn’t care. He can feel her eyes on him even if he can’t see to be sure, and he continues to shout at her as he feels the strange liquid entering his body, weakening his spine as it slowly pulls him back down into the dark.

“Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!”

The word echoes as it follows him down.

 

 

Had Toast only listened to her common sense, rather than the insistent lilt of Nux’s voice, she wouldn’t have been in this position. But there she was, making her way up the smooth steps into the spire of the Citadel, clinging tighter to her shawl than she has in hundreds of days, trying to convince herself the tremor in her fingers is exertion, and nothing more.

When they had gone to recover the salvage, days and days after returning to the Citadel, neither she nor any of her Sisters had expected to find the War Boys alive. They guessed it was possible, but none of them wanted to hold out any hope – if not because they had little love for the krazy smegs, but because they didn’t want to see Capable’s heart break a second time. None of them pretended to understand her deep emotion for Nux; they only knew it had once helped sustain her, and the thought of seeing another light within her die was almost too much to bear.

When the salvage party returned, towing little more than burnt out cars and bikes, resembling skeletons more than vehicles, Toast stood beside Capable, their hands firmly clasped. She could feel the shivering in her Sister’s arm, the thready need for news rolling off of her in waves. The smoke stained wreckage of the War Rig was pulled in last, and from the sight of it alone, Toast could feel the hope drain from Capable’s body. She squeezed her hand a little tighter; offering silent comfort though she knew it would do little good.

But there was shouting from the cab of the retrieval cars, and quickly realized how full their cabs had been. The Boys were pulling others from open windows and sun roofs, blackened skin a stark contrast to their fading, white paint, and she felt more than heard Capable gasp.

In a matter of moments they ran to the edge of the platform as it slowly made its way toward the landing, Capable practically bouncing on her toes. Her energy seemed infectious, and Toast found herself pacing, jumping from one foot to the other, impatient to see who they had salvaged.

She had wanted to chastise him, shaking him by the ears as Nux’s face appeared over the edge of the landing. How could he make her Sister worry like that? How _dare_ he? The Boy was sitting on the hood of the car, spine curled and arm limp on his lap – obviously broken and useless – but he was smiling, looking smug and proud and eager. He didn’t bother waiting for the platform to stop. In two long strides and one high step he was on the landing, his good arm wrapping so tightly around Capable’s shoulders Toast feared he was suffocating her.

But she could hear her Sister’s sob, relief and shed grief falling from her as she wailed helplessly into Nux’s throat, clinging to him just as tightly. They rocked back and forth on their feet, a soft _“Shh, shush now.”_ whispered from Nux’s sand shredded throat, and for the second time since their return, Toast felt that there was a chance.

Two days later, largely at Nux’s insistence, the salvage crew was out again, searching for more War Boys and torn up cars. Furiosa was against it, reminding him that most of what they had found in the canyon was hardly worth the guzzoline it took to get out there, but she relented eventually. When Capable had asked him why he was so intent on the second run, her War Boy pressed his temple to hers, and told her of Slit.

Toast thought his desire to see his Lancer return was foolish – she had spied the man on their last run back to the Citadel, hanging off the hood of his vehicle, laughing against the sun and wind and sand. He beat his chest like an animal, howling and hissing, and Toast found it very difficult to believe Nux’s words.

_Not so bad._

_He had my back…_

She hadn’t seen his car twist in the flames, but she had felt the explosion rattle her bones. Neither she nor Capable wanted to tell Nux how bad it was, but her Sister held his hand all the same, just as Toast had done for her two days prior.  But there were no smiles, no touches, and no tears of relief as Slit’s body was revealed to them – broken, bloody and charred on the hood of the car.

Another War Boy was sitting beside him; a hooked needle stitching tirelessly along Slit’s left side. Beside them both was a torn, twisted scrap of metal, easily the length of Toast’s arm. Even from her place behind Nux and Capable, she could see it was stained with blood, blackened from fire. Nux hovered helplessly, itching so hard to help the Boys haul his friend down to the Blood Shed, his broken arm leaving him impotent. He watched as the Vuvalini cleaned him; picked shredded bits of steel from his too pale skin, cut away flesh blackened and necrotic.

It took another full day before Capable could convince Nux to leave Slit’s bedside, insisting that starving himself wouldn’t help his friend in the end. He only relented when Toast, in a moment of pity, agreed to stay and watch over him instead. She watched Capable lead her War Boy out of the Shed, huffing a breath of annoyance. There were other things she should be doing, but a promise was a promise, even to a krazy War Boy like him.

She frowned when she turned back to her patient. He was as frightening as she remembered, even as he slept, his face twisted into a permanent smile by jagged scars, deep and puffy against his cheeks. The steel of the staples glinted in the lights, and she wondered why he had chosen to keep them in – the wounds were old, long healed; the bits of metal were no longer necessary. Wasn’t he worried the skin would try to grow over them? Maybe he kept them clear by cutting the flesh away.

She shook her head, forcing her eyes away from the scars. The very idea was making her feel dizzy in her stomach.

Instead she examined the rest of him, cataloging scars both old and new. The Vuvalini had done exceptional work on him, cutting away dead flesh and sparing the healthy as much as possible. His stitches were neat and clean. She tilted her head, looking at the smattering of scar tissue across his abdomen. He had taken a piece of shrapnel to his belly, the stitches there obscuring the picture that had been there before. The War Boys’ practice of scarification had always made her uncomfortable, but she found herself curious about what his pictures signified. The one on his stomach was impressive in its size and intricacy – she was sure he would be disappointed by its destruction when he woke.

 _If_ he woke.

She soon grew bored, finally admitting that agreeing to watch over the War Boy was probably a mistake on her part.

Even so, she watched the shadows within the Blood Shed shift as least four hands before she left for the evening, making a silent vow to Nux that she’d return right away the next day.

But the following morning she arrived to chaos, War Boys, Pups and Vuvalini running back and forth, retrieving bowls and knives and bandage wrappings and tubes and needles. Toast pushed her way through the Pups that ran to fetch these implements, feeling her stomach drop out as she realized where everyone was crowded around.

She couldn’t see him clearly past the older women, but she knew it was Slit.

“What’s happening? What happened to him?” even to her, her voice sounded weak, but it carried enough and Melita turned, the front of her shirt wet with blood.

“Here, girl. You’ll just be in the way.” She said, moving forward to ease Toast away from the bed.

“What’s going on?” she insisted, pushing back against the old woman’s hands.

Melita had sighed, glancing over her shoulder at Maddie who continued to hover over Slit, “Infection. Had him gasping in the early morning, skin as hot as the brand. We figgur’ it’s somewhere in his belly. Had to cut him back open.”

Toast felt her stomach lurch, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. The Vuvalini looks back to her, pity in her eyes.

“Go on then. If you insist on being here, you’ll have to wait outside. Don’t need you tripping up the Pups or distracting everyone around you.” She turned Toast physically away, rough, bloodied hands on her shoulders, “Better yet, get back up to that clean place you Girls like to linger. Tell that besotted fool what his friend’s in for.”

Toast was firmly pushed outside the Blood Shed, whipping around only to see Melita’s back. She wanted to go back inside, to see, to watch, but her feet felt as heavy as the stone beneath her.

Go back to the Dome? Tell Nux that his friend was likely dying, right at that moment? Because she hadn’t stayed by his side like she swore she would?

Toast knew it wasn’t her fault, she knew it deep down inside, but her guilt refused to budge, whispering thoughts into her ears. _If I had been here, would he be where he is now? Would I have seen it before it tried to take him?_

In the end, Toast sat down beside the entrance to the Shed, her arms wrapped across her legs, forehead pressed to her knees. She didn’t bother to track the movement of the shadows. She didn’t think it would matter – dead was dead, and the timing didn’t seem to have significance after all. But there was someone speaking to her, calling her name on an annoyed breath, and before she knew what was what, Toast found herself once again standing by his bedside, little tremors of relief quaking through her bones.

He had survived the second surgery, they said, voices distant in her brain. The infection wasn’t so severe that they couldn’t pull him back, but he had lost more of his flesh, muscle, and blood. He would likely have trouble working at full efficiency, once recovered. Toast didn’t care – she was too grateful to the Vuvalini for correcting her mistake to even bother.

With him this close to death, however, came complications and side effects. His body seemed to thrum with fever, a heat so bad his caretakers blamed it mostly on the tumors growing behind his ear. They had been removed shortly after his emergency cutting, and his body was finally fighting back against all the other little hurts within him. But the fever made him thrash and mumble in his sleep, and they were forced to chain him down to prevent him from hurting himself unintentionally.

Toast stayed with him, wiping the sweat from his brow with clean rags dipped in cool water. She stayed and made sure he made it through the nights.

She stayed, and for the first time, she heard him speaking.

 _No_ , she thought; she had heard him before, but then it was all _“Traitor!”_ and _“Filth!”_ and obscenities hurled at Nux during the adrenaline of the fight. This is different – soft and muttering and urgent.

She knows it’s a result of the fever; perhaps bad dreams skittering in his skull, and she feels a wave of sympathy for him. Her hand reaches out, fingertips stroking across his brow. His ruined mouth turns down at the corners, as though his body is fighting against the caress, too weak to writhe. It’s an odd thing to see, she muses, the puckering of the scars along his cheeks, face bare of war paint. The Vuvalini had stripped him of it before his surgery – said it wasn’t good for the wounds.

If it were possible, he seemed even more intimidating without it. His skin was still very pale, cracked in the corners and creases from dehydration and sun. His scars were less pronounced, but they had a waxy hue to them that shined in the light of the wall torches. She was surprised to note that his eyebrows remained intact – bits were curled from fire damage, sure, but they would grow back. With all that black grease, he had given the impression that he had shorn them off just like the hair on his head.

After a while his fussing quieted, only his lips parting occasionally to mutter something unintelligible, his voice a hardly more than a rumble in his chest. But his breathing is steadying, and when she presses her fingertips to the inside of his wrist, she can feel his heart beating strong and sure. It’s enough for her to feel relief, and Toast leaves him for the night. It’s only when she’s on her way back to The Vault that she realizes the sun is beginning to creep over the horizon. She had remained beside him all through the night, petting his brow and shushing his sleeping voice.

As she steps through the tunnel into the central room, she spies Capable and Nux, curled together on a nest of blankets and pillows. He was still not used to something as luxurious as an actual mattress, so her Sister had compromised, building him a tiny den near the bathing pool. His head popped up at Toast’s approach. He smiled sleepily, mouthing a “thank you” to her. Toast nodded her acknowledgement, and made her way up the ramp to her room. Her bed had never felt so good.

The days followed in much the same pattern. She would wake around midday, gather her water and food ration, and make her way back down to the Blood Shed. Slit remained asleep; an effect of the drug the Vuvalini kept constantly feeding into him. Day by day the beds around him were slowly beginning to empty, either through recovery or silent deaths. Thankfully, the latter were few and far between, and though the older Boys frowned at the behavior, Toast was grateful to see the younger Pups saluting their fallen brothers with the V8 Symbol, even though they had died as soft as one could go.

As she sat beside Slit’s sleeping form, she observed the other Boys around her, frowning as she chewed a bitter leaf between her teeth. It was strange to her that so many of the War Boys seemed to accept the Sisters’ presence, or Furiosa’s authority. She could understand the acceptance from the Pups – they were too young to know any better, and were quite impressionable. The Boys who had remained at the Citadel during their escape were too sick to fight against them on their return, and even though their beliefs were deep seeded, she supposed that every man had his price when it came down to facing a death they had no control over. To fight them meant no more top-ups or glorious battles. If they gave in and followed Furiosa’s word, then they had another chance to hit Fury Road and go out on their own terms. It was a tentative alliance, but Toast knew they’d take what they could get.

It was the others; the ones they pulled from the wreckage and were slowly healing that had her worried. Most of them seemed to take to the new regime with an almost too accepting attitude. Maybe they watched their God die on the Road and that was enough for them. Maybe they were just biding their time. Either way, Toast knew they were fragile in both body and mind, and that she would have to keep her eye on them. None of them would ever forsake their worship of V8, but perhaps they could use that to their advantage.

She sighed, turning back to her charge, frowning when she saw his lips twitching in sleep again. A light sweat had popped up across his forehead, so she dipped her cloth in the cool bowl of water they kept beside him, and began to clean his face again.

She paused as he turned his head, pressing his skin against the light pressure of her hand, seeking. It was the first time he had acknowledged her touch, though he remained asleep and delirious. It hurt her heart to watch him, so eager for that comfort, unconscious though it was. She knew the War Boys had led hard lives – they had to, in order to survive under Joe – but she had never thought that maybe they had been deprived of something as simple as a touch.

She continued to wipe his brow, freeing it of the cloying sweat before she cupped his ruined cheek in her hand, unable to hide her smile as Slit rested against her palm, nuzzling into it. Her thumb stroked along his temple, and she felt her breath stutter when he opened his eyes.

Her first impression was awe, the colors between his two eyes so starkly different – one a deep blue, like the thick clouds that hung over the refinery in Gas Town. The other was obviously damaged, blood bursts and black, but the wound looked old, white scar tissue gliding over his pupil like any oily film. He was blind there, or nearly so, and still managed to throw a lance? If Nux was to be believed, Slit had been the best Lancer in the Citadel.

Toast felt herself smiling at him, her thumb continuing to stroke him.

“Good morning, War Boy.”

She knew he didn’t understand, that he probably thought her a hallucination, or part of his fever dreams. It didn’t matter. He only blinked up at her, his tongue darting out dry to lick at his equally parched lips. His voice was more of a croak, but through the roughness she could make out words.

“You’re… soft.”

She didn’t understand why those two words pleased her, but they did. Her smile bloomed wider, his eyes staying locked on her face as her other hand drifted down, lacing her fingers with his and offering a reassuring squeeze. It didn’t take long before he drifted away again, his sleep deep and restful.

She didn’t see him awake again for three more days, and it was so very different from before. He had thrashed, and screamed, and bit at her. He hissed and saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He was _furious_ with her, and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. But his strength was a sign that her duty was over now, and she tried to convince herself that the thought didn’t make her ache.

 _So stupid_ , she thought as she pulled her shawl from her shoulders, stepping past the threshold of the Vault. What did she really know about this War Boy, this Slit? He had proven how brutal he was on Fury Road, eager to hurt and to die. He had proven it again as he spit and snarled at her, pulling against his restraints in an effort to reach her, to grip and tear and shred. It was only delirium and fever that had made his eyes wide and gentle, and Toast berated herself for thinking maybe that’s who he really was – awed and careful – behind the thick layers of war paint. When she spied Nux, sitting on the edge of the pool, his pants rolled up over his knees, feet kicking gently in the water, she wanted to throw something at him for his lies.

But no… he had never said his Lancer was a kind person. He had only spoken of his prowess, his dedication to perfection, how they had worked together as a team. A person could be extremely capable and still be an infuriating, violent smeg.

Instead of giving in to her urge for retaliation, she joined him beside the pool, squatting down and nudging him with her elbow. He offered her a smile which she returned, silently pleased to see the color returning to his skin, his arm still caught inside the sling Capable had fashioned for him.

“Your friend is awake now.” She said, softly, like it was a secret. Nux’s eyes widened to a comical degree.

“Really? He’s up and moving?”

“Not moving, no. He was…” she looked away, taking a deep breath, “He still seems pretty violent. You’re sure it was a good idea to bring him back?”

When she glanced at him again, his silence gone on too long, she immediately regretted her words. He looked heartbroken, like she had shredded his ribs herself.

“Slit’s… he’s not like you, or Capable, or anyone. He’s not Soft like any of you.”

That word again; the one that had made her so pleased, turned sour and brittle now.

“But he’ll understand. He’ll have to. Makes no sense to spit a lizard out when lizard’s all you’ve got.”

Toast didn’t think she believed him, but she hummed in response before standing up and retreating to her room. Whatever Slit decided to do – swallow what was offered or starve to death – it was no longer her concern. She had done as promised; the rest of his life, pitiable though it may end up being, was now up to him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Spare me your judgments and spare me your dreams_  
_‘Cuz recently mine have been tearing my seams_  
 _I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind_

 

The next time he was able to open his eyes Slit was pleased to find his vision was finally beginning to clear. Distant objects were in sharper focus, and the light from the wall torches seemed less harsh. What he _wasn’t_ pleased about was what he actually _saw_.

Sitting beside him on a rickety stool was that worthless scrap of skin. Nux, Nux; traitoring Nux. Slit would never say he had been _proud_ to ride along with him – his pride was reserved for his _own_ accomplishments – but together they had made a strong team; formidable, fierce. Now he was nothing but rust and corrode, unworthy to step foot inside the Citadel ever again. He hoped the symbol of V8 on his chest burned fresh and shameful.

But there he was anyway, his shoulders hunched, his eyes trained to the floor, and Slit was the one chained down.

“What do you want?” he growled, clenching his fists so the chains rattled in protest. Nux’s head snapped up and toward him, his eyes huge as ever. Slit noticed the sling knotted at the base of his neck, of the arm hanging limply within it. If he were free, he would use that to his advantage. Strike the shoulder. Kick his forearm. He would drop Nux fast, and shred him until there was nothing recognizable left.

“You’re awake! How do you feel?”

The question felt like jagged metal across his skin, and Slit hissed, jerking as far forward as his bonds would allow, “How do you _think_ I feel, you mediocre piece of filth?! Get these things off me!”

At that Nux’s eager smile began to fade, and he leaned back on the stool.

“Can’t do that. They say you’ll hurt yourself,” his eyes traveled down Slit’s torso, lingering on the heavy set of stitches holding his gut together, “or that you’ll try to hurt someone else.”

“I should. _You_ should! He’ll be back; he’ll take this place back! Let me loose and we’ll kill the betrayer Furiosa for him and He’ll let you go to Valhalla!”

Slit couldn’t understand why Nux’s eyes turned sad, his scarred lips parting on a defeated breath. He jerked at his chains again, feeling his heart race against his ribs as an unfamiliar well of panic began to rise up his belly.

“What are you doing, Nux? Let me out of here! We have to take the Citadel back!”

Slowly Nux stood, his good hand reaching out to pat Slit’s knee. It was a pitying motion, and he jerked his leg away from the touch. He wasn’t some fresh Pup, crying in the pile for something he could never have.

“Nux? Nux!” he called after his Driver, fury racing down his spine when his words were ignored. He didn’t know how long he screamed for him, only registering the pain in his throat when the leather-faces returned with their needles and drugs.

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s met with another surge of alarm when his vision doesn’t immediately focus. The walls are blurred and murky, and he can’t help the gasping breath he sucks inside, his fists clenching, rattling his chains.

Was he finally going blind? Was he going to be thrown out into the Wasteland for being useless to the Immortan, the War Boys, the Citadel?

“You’re waking up a lot sooner than you should. I guess you’re building an immunity to the sedative.”

He recognized the voice – spoken quietly but with an edge much harder than before. He turns his useless eyes toward her, the Little Treasure, the Soft Shine. He blinked twice, and his eyes began to clear.

She’s brought a second stool with her to prop up her booted feet, her back leaning against the rock wall beside his bed. She’s balancing a wordburger – a _book_ , he recalls – against her knees, and a small clay bowl in the other, faint steam rising from the lip. Her eyes remain focused away from him, on the pages laid open before her, her free hand absently fingering the brittle paper. The scent of it reaches him somehow, reminding him of the smell deep beneath the citadel – damp and wild.

“Why are you here?” he asks, meaning to put a much harsher tone to his voice, finding it near impossible. The drug the leather-faces had given him have left him weak in body and tongue, and he hopes his placid noises don’t diminish her impression of him.

He wanted her to hate him. He wanted her to fear him. He wanted her to remember his disgust with her.

The Soft Shine shrugged a single shoulder, turning page of her _book_ , “Nux said you weren’t exactly affable yesterday. He didn’t want you to be alone, but didn’t think you’d want him here for a while.”

 _Yesterday?_ The idea confounds him, that he had slept so much and so long. What had these women been feeding into him?

He sneers at her, “So, what? He thinks a Little thing like you will change my mind? Turn me Soft like _him_?”

She pauses, taking a slow sip of whatever was in the little clay bowl, still not turning her eyes to him. It prickles at his nerves, makes him frown harder.

“I don’t really care what your mind does, War Boy. I’m keeping a promise to a friend.”

Slit snorts, shaking his head slightly to grumble at the ceiling, “Shouldn’t trust that mediocre shit. He betrayed _me_ , betrayed everyone.”

He can sense her movement first, turning only slightly to catch her in the corner of his vision. She’s finally looking at him, and it surprises him to not see pity like he had expected, but curiosity, and a strange aura of communion between them.

“I guess he did, didn’t he?”

He looked at her fully, shocked by her words. The Soft Shine was sitting upright, her elbows resting on her knees, cupping her little bowl between her hands as she watches him over the rim. He suddenly wishes he could be sitting up as well, if only so he didn’t feel so small when compared to her. He was sure he’d tower over her if he could stand.

Immediately he felt a pang of mistrust, wanting her away from him as quickly possible. He grinned at her, knowing the way it would make his face twist, his staples pull. All the War Boys were fierce, but everyone knew he was the fiercest. She _should_ be frightened of him.

“He did. He lied and cheated us, every one of us. Should gut him and leave his belly open for the _crows_.”

She should have recoiled, showed her disgust, but she did neither of this things. Instead, she watched him calmly, absorbing his words, accepting them. Slit grew uncomfortable under her gaze, disturbed that his threats did not seem to move her. Instead, her mouth quirked up at the corner, as though the very idea was _funny_.

He wondered, briefly, if he might end up liking this Soft Shine.

Instead of answering him, she returned to her book, turning pages to return to her original place, setting her little clay bowl to rest on the table beside them. Slit twisted his neck to look at it, the scent reaching him as surely as the pages of the book did.

Wet. Smooth. Things he couldn’t identify.

“What is that?”

She looked up at him again, blinking quickly, as though she hadn’t expected him to ask.

“Tea. Dag found some leaves in the garden.”

The garden? What was she talking about?

“Did you want to try some?”

Immediately Slit felt himself recoil, once more wary of her. But she smiled at him again when she noted his reaction, amused by him. He wondered, briefly, why his neck suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.

“It won’t hurt you, War Boy. It’s not the best thing in the world, true, but it’s relaxing.”

He snorted at her, rolling his eyes toward the dead needles next to the bed, “Been plenty relaxed lately.”

There was the sound of laughter in her voice when she answered, “I promise it won’t make you fall asleep. I think you’ve done enough of that for a while.”

He considered for several heartbeats, his eyes darting from the bowl to her face and back again. He could detect no hostility in her, or any kind of lie. And besides, if this “tea” were something bad, something to eat away at his insides, then she wouldn’t have drank any first, would she?

He looked back to her once more, and gave a short, sharp nod.

She seemed pleased with his decision, her hand eagerly bringing the cup forward where she paused.

“I’ll have to hold your head up for you. Is that alright?”

Slit felt something inside him twist, gently; he remembered how he had spat at her before, when she had reached out to touch his forehead.

He wouldn’t say he felt _guilty_ just then, but whatever emotion it was didn’t feel good.

“S’fine.” He grumbled, refusing to meet her gaze.

Slowly, her hand slipped beneath the bed and his neck, her fingertips a brisk contrast to his overheated skin. He felt his flesh prickle, the fine hairs on his arms and legs standing at attention, like they did when he walked through the deep trenches of water between the welding bay and the bunks. The water there was undrinkable, but they used it to cool car parts they had heated and hammered. Sitting within the rocks kept it surprisingly cool and he always shivered as he waded his way through.

The Soft Shine’s hand reminded him of that – cool water clinging to his skin.

Carefully she brought her hand up to the base of his skull, her fingers spreading wide to support it as she tilted his chin up, bringing the clay bowl forward with the same movement. She pressed it to his lips, and Slit had to suppress the sudden urge to groan.

Whatever this _tea_ stuff was, it was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. There wasn’t much variety to his diet to begin with, and he suddenly realized why the Immortan so carefully maintained what his War Boys could and could not eat. The flavors burst against his tongue – sweet and robust like the Mother’s Milk, a mild heat that slipped down his throat like rushing air. If this _tea_ had been available to them, Slit knew they would fight amongst themselves for it, to possess all of it, to remain addicted to it.

She drew the bowl away far too soon for his liking.

She was smiling at him, still amused as she held the _tea_ close to her breast, “Well? Does it meet your approval?”

He didn’t understand why that mattered. What did she care if he liked her fancy drink or not? In the end he chose not to answer, only watched her face as she watched him, waiting for his response. Eventually, he realized that she was still holding his head up, cradling the back with a gentle hand.

He squirmed on the bed, his chains clanking and the noise seemed enough to get her to release him. She lowered his head back down, slipping her fingers away slowly so she wouldn’t jostle him too much. She replaced the now mostly empty bowl back on the table, and gathered up her book, tucking it beneath her arm.

“I’m-“ she paused, her brows pinching as she thought on her words, “I’m going back. If you promise not to make a fuss, the Vuvalini won’t drug you to sleep again.”

He glanced once again at the needles, his face twisting into a grin before turning back to her, “Needles don’t scare me. The krazed leather-faces just might.”

Slit could see it, see it in the glitter in her eyes – her estimation of him had risen a few degrees.

The Soft Shine smiled at him again, “Yeah, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Capable had suggested that Toast return to the War Boy’s sickbed, she had declined – vehemently. There was too much to do, still; Furiosa had asked her to assist in overseeing the construction of the settlement below the Citadel, as well as give her advice to the surviving War Boys in planning the placement of new watch posts and entry gates. With Joe, The People Eater and The Bullet Farmer now dead (and damn all three to whatever Hell was waiting for them), the Buzzards were going unchecked. Joe was nothing if not arrogant, and he fully believed the might of his army was enough to hold the scavengers at bay, leaving the Citadel devoid of any real defenses outside six turret guns placed just between the pillars. They were fine things – well-oiled and maintained – but with no steady supply of ammunition from The Bullet Farm, they would be less than useless should anyone try to raid the place.

They had been at the Citadel for sixty days already – the Wasteland Tribes were bound to figure out their vulnerability soon, and if they didn’t do all they could to secure their fortress and slowly budding township, then everyone would be dead before the next full moon.

Unfortunately for her, Capable didn’t seem to understand her protests.

“It’s just that you’re so good with him! Really, he’s much better behaved around you.”

Toast snorted as she stalked through the upper halls, catching a Pup by the arm as he tried to sprint past her. She gave him a warning glare, and he meekly muttered out an apology before she released him.

“If that was well behaved, I’d hate to see him in a _bad_ mood. Really, Capable, what do you want from me? He tried to _bite me_.”

Together they passed through the archway into the hydroponic room, immediately assaulted by the waves of steam and misting water. Fresh green and the scent of moist soil crept into Toast’s senses, and she inhaled it deeply, willing her spine to relax.

“Please, Toast? Nux is still too weak to handle him, and it hurts him to see his friend like this. _Please_? As a personal favor to me?”

Her fingertips brushed across the robust leaves as they walked down the rows of vegetation, and she was sorely tempted to agree to Capable request. But Slit’s voice, grainy and hissing entered her mind as her resolve began to waver.

_Filthy Soft Shine._

“Why can’t _you_ do it? Nux is _your_ War Boy, after all.”

Capable paused, and Toast turned to see her twisting her fingers together, her face looking sad. Immediately Toast returned to her side, gently gripping her shoulder, squeezing for support.

“It’s… The things he did, what he said to Nux, and-“ her breath caught, a hiccup preceding a stifled sob, “I’m _afraid_ of him! It’s so stupid and I trust Nux but the stories he’s told me about him, I just-“

Toast took hold of her other shoulder, immediately drawing Capable into her arms.

“It’s _not_ stupid. You have every right to be afraid.”

Capable sniffled, curling her hands into the back of Toast’s shirt, “You’re not afraid of him.”

Toast frowned against Capable’s cheek, “That’s not true. Have you seen him? He’s terrifying.”

“He needs to get better, Toast. He needs to start healing like the others, to _see_ the lies Joe gave them. Until he does that he’ll try to hurt Nux, me, all of us. Maybe even himself.”

They stood in silence a long while, Toast gently rocking her Sister as she cried out the bits of her fear. Eventually she pulled away, rubbing her nose across the back of her hand. Her eyes were blood shot and swollen, and Toast was sure Nux would fuss over her for hours as soon as he saw.

“Are you absolutely sure no one else can watch over him?”

Capable nodded, sniffling again, “You’re the only one I’ve seen that won’t answer his violence with more violence. I think he needs that.”

And damn her, Toast had to admit that she was right.

The conversation she had had with him wasn’t overly long, his body still weak from the sleeping drug the Vuvalini had been giving him. But she had to admit, listening to him speak of Nux’s betrayal and what he wanted to do for retribution had not only disgusted her, but it had struck a chord somewhere inside her mind.

Toast would never let him act on it, of course, but she could sympathize with the feeling. For days she had dreamt of doing much similar to her so called _family_ ; the filthy, depraved cretins that traded her up for a few skins of water and fresh ammo clips. She found a sick satisfaction in knowing that if they had only traveled on further, actually made it to the Citadel instead of The Bullet Farm, they might not have gotten cheated on the quality of their trade.

She was still smug in knowing she was worth more than _three fucking clips._

In the end, she had taken Capable’s advice when dealing with Slit, and was very glad she had. Once she refused to acknowledge his angry reactions, he had settled quite easily, even asking about the cup of tea Dag had brewed for her before she made her way down to the Blood Shed.

It was a little thrilling, watching him taste her tea; like watching a Pup take his first steps, or when Dag played her first successful scales on the broken down piano Joe had demanded they all learn to use. She let herself linger over his expressions, unable to help the smile when his brows pinched up, his eye lashes fluttering against his cheeks and a soft moan reverberating across the pottery.

She hadn’t counted on the awkward eye contact, or the strange buzzing in her stomach it caused, but she was aware enough to know that leaving at that moment was best. Still, she couldn’t help but offer more words to him, and she was surprised to find that she was still smiling, even as she reached the muted light of the Dome.

It was so strange, she thought. Of all the things about Slit she knew or inferred, him having a sense of humor certainly wasn’t one of them. But he had joked with her before she left, downplayed his own discomfort, and for what? Her benefit? His own? She didn’t know, and she had to admit it made her curious about him.

What was he like Before? Did he have this dry sense of humor all the time or only in moments where he was essentially safe, allowed to be vulnerable? Or was it just the effects of the drugs, making him far more open than he would be if he were fully in control of himself?

It was disarming, and as she replaced the book she carried back into the stacks piled high along the walls, Toast had to wonder if he was tricking her. She wouldn’t put it past him – he was observant, and much smarter than he looked. From the way Nux spoke of him, she knew him to be manipulative as well, easily wheedling out a person’s weaknesses and exploiting them with harsh words and harsher actions. According to him, Slit did it for everyone’s benefit, one way or another. He would prod and insult and drive the others into reaching past their limits, into doing everything at their best.

Slit wasn’t a Driver, could never be, but he pushed himself to be the best Lancer in their band, had earned himself a spot riding with the best Driver. He refused to do anything half-assed, and accepted no less from his Brothers.

It was a rather optimistic view to take on the man, Toast had to admit. If she were in Nux’s shoes, she’d have written him off as an arrogant ass – and probably had her fair share of fights with him as a result. She had no doubt that they would butt heads in the future, even if Slit finally came around to their way of thinking. The idea deflated some of her levity, and she refocused on the problem at hand.

Slit was healing, and healing quickly, now that the infection was out of him. He would be able to get up and walk around on his own strength within another twenty days, and no one had any right to stop him. They could keep him chained in the Blood Shed, of course, but she and her Sisters had all adamantly refused the notion. How could they possibly be better than Joe if they kept him prisoner like that?

So she had hardly a handful of hours to figure out how to change Slit’s mind about them, about the Citadel, about Joe. It seemed an insurmountable task to her, and she felt a heavy weight in her stomach, her shoulders tensing with stress and worry.

Damn it all, she _liked_ the growly smeg; hissing teeth, scarred up face and all. And damn it further, he hadn’t even been _trying_ to get her to like him. She didn’t want to hurt him further.

As she mounted the steps to her room, Toast felt her smile fading, pulling into a tight frown. Perhaps hurting Slit was unavoidable, in the end. Truth, though freeing, could be unbearably painful in its process, and she had a feeling that he wouldn’t take the truth of Joe’s domination over him very well at all.

Not that he was any closer to listening to them about the whole thing. The Vuvalini had been explaining to him, day in and day out, what had really gone on in these towers. Even Nux himself, the one person in the whole broken World that Slit should have been able to trust hadn’t gotten through to him. And he had even less reason to listen to her, “Soft Shine” that she was; one of the Wives that ran away from his precious Father God.

Sleep came slowly that night, consciousness drifting in and out as the problem continued to dance around her mind. It was early in the day when Dag appeared at the foot of her bed, a look of concern across her fair features.

“One of those Pups came to get you.”

Toast groaned, tilting her head sideways to look at her sister, her exhausted mind refusing to bring her limbs to function, “What? Why?”

Dag shrugged a pale shoulder, drifting across the room to poke at a stack of books and loose papers on the desk.

“The man with the lizard face asked for you.”

Still groggy, Toast ran the statement through her mind several times, confusion mounting with each syllable. It took several minutes before she understood her Sister’s metaphor, and it made her smirk. She wondered if Slit would take it as a compliment or not.

She yawned, and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, blinking rapidly when she realized Dag was now standing mere inches away, her slender hand held out, a tiny cloth satchel dangling from her fingertips.

“What’s that?”

“More leaves. I guess he asked for more tea _and_ for you.”

“Oh?” she asked, though the question was spoken on distraction, her hand automatically taking the bag from Dag. Her Sister shrugged her shoulder again, distain clear on her face.

“Be careful with him. Shouldn’t sit and have a tea party with wolves.”

Toast laughed, finally standing and moving to dress, “You don’t even know what a wolf is, Dag.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Toast waved her hand, noncommittal, and she watched her Sister leave from the corner of her vision. She would take her warning to heart, however flippant she tried to be. Dag had always had a good sense for people, and she’d be a fool to ignore her words, strange though they often seemed. Either way, she was grateful for the little satchel of leaves – the warm brew would help perk her up, and she had a feeling she’d need all her wits about her today.

Despite her exhaustion, Toast found herself eager to make her way down to the Blood Shed, curiosity burning and nipping at her heels.


	3. Chapter 3

_I’ll read to you here, save your eyes_  
_You’ll need them, your boat is at sea_  
 _Your anchor is up, you’ve been swept away_  
 _And the greatest of teachers won’t hesitate_  
 _To leave you there by yourself, chained to Fate_

Slit yawned wide and loud, hissing in annoyance as his jaw painfully popped. His hand automatically tried to move up, to massage the aching joint and muscle, and he let out a frustrated growl when the chains stopped him short again. He had been released earlier that morning, though he could hardly call it any sort of freedom. The leather-faced hags had three other War Boys with them, weary eyed but strong, as they unlocked the manacles and helped him to stand. As a group, they shuffled him through a corridor, the women promptly turning around as Slit unzipped his pants.

The piss had felt incredible, one hand guiding his cock while the other rest palm-flat against the rock face, a grateful sigh escaping him. He hadn’t even realized his bladder had been so full until given the chance to relieve the pressure, and he didn’t hesitate to lean farther forward, to press his forehead against the cool stone.

For a few seconds, he could almost pretend it was a normal day.

Too soon the leather-faces were back, urging him to zip up and let the War Boys drag him back to his sick bed. He gave them cursory snarls as rough hands gripped his arms, but they all knew it was for show. Slit knew he wasn’t strong enough yet to make it back without assistance. The knowledge made him want to vomit over all of them.

As the War Boys secured him back to the bed, he wondered if any of them actually knew what they were doing, the mistakes they were making. Two of them were completely devoid of the paint and talc, their eyes and noses free of grease. The third still had black smears over his eyes, but otherwise his flesh was clean. Slit didn’t recognize any of them, but he tried to make eye contact with them, to communicate without the hags hearing.

All three of them only looked on him with pity, and it brought the sick, vomit feeling back up.

What in the dead, wasted world did they have to pity? They should pity themselves, since they were the ones dead and soft and done once Immortan Joe returned to take back his home.

Slit huffed, squirming his shoulders on the bed as he waited, staring at the ceiling. The hags had grown tired of his grumbling, threatening to needle him again. He hadn’t wanted to sleep, was tired of them controlling him, so he had requested the Soft Shine instead.

The white-haired leather-face had lifted a brow at him, surprise evident on her face, “You mean Toast?”

Slit hadn’t learned her name, hadn’t really cared to. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the sound, but sneered at them anyway, “Who else would I mean? Get her here.”

The women glanced at one another, obviously mistrustful and confused, but the younger of the two nodded slowly, walking out through the door.

“And tell her to bring that tea crap too!” he shouted after her, and he didn’t miss the chuff of laughter from the white-haired hag.

He grumbled again, shifting around on his back, uncomfortable and twitchy. He almost wished they had left him in the bed to piss himself – the reminder of what it was to be up and mobile had him climbing the walls, and lying down was a torture in and of itself. The only thing that was worse was the _waiting_. At least before, when there were no raids, salvage runs, or supply trips, there was always something to keep his hands busy. He didn’t have the finesse in his hands he needed to be a Black Thumb, to tinker in the beautiful guts of the cars and trucks, but that didn’t stop him from tearing parts down and reassembling them, turning them into something greater than that rusted scrap heaps they originally were. He glanced down at his legs, frowning to see all his tools missing, knives and socket wrenches and replacement torch pieces gone. It was possible they were lost during the glorious explosion where he should have died, but he doubted it. He felt his head throb with the thought that he had been stripped of his possessions, and would never get them back.

His teeth clenched and he growled, jerking at his chains again, pulling them taunt. He held his breath, determined to break them by sheer will alone, ignoring the slow burn building in his torso.

“Stupid! You’re going to pop your stitches!”

Slit exhaled loudly, turning his head sharply to see the Soft Shine striding across the room, short legs working hard to eat up the distance. She carried a stack of _books_ in one arm, a satchel slung over the opposite shoulder. She dropped her load without a second thought, and Slit wanted to recoil at her mistreatment of such treasures, but the reaction was short lived when her tiny hands pressed into his shoulders, forcing him back down on the bed.

She held him there, glaring at him as she put as much of her meager weight against him that she could, one leg pressed against the mattress, her shin parallel to his ribs.

“Idiot. I thought you were past this.”

Slit narrowed his eyes at her, “ _You_ try being stuck in one place for days. See how _you_ like it!” he clenched his fists again, rattling the chains to punctuate his statement.

He watched, curious, as her frown faded to calm, the pressure lessening against his shoulders. Slowly she sat back, weight resting on her heel still propped against his side. Her hands moved away, dragging only briefly across his collar bones before she rest them against her thighs. She held his eyes with her own, and Slit grew agitated under her dark stare. They were communicating, speaking without words, and he didn’t like what he saw.

“Why are you here?” he grunted, wrenching their gazes apart with a twist of his neck. He felt her tense beside him, and stand.

“You asked for me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t think you’d show.”

She snorted at him, turning to pick up her books and satchel, “Yeah well, I guess I didn’t have anything better to do. Not like the whole Citadel is counting on us to keep them safe.”

“Not your job; that’s what War Boys are for.”

She shook her head as she dug in the satchel. He watched as she pulled three clay bowls out, one much larger than the other two, a smaller satchel made of thinly woven cloth, and a gas burner; she placed them on the table beside his bed, and he recognized what the burner was for. Drivers carried them on overnight runs to heat their rations of Mother’s Milk, or to hold their hands over when the black sky grew too cold. Lastly she retrieved a beat up canteen, shaking it a bit to judge the amount of water inside.

“What are you doing?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“You wanted more tea, right?” she placed the larger bowl atop the flat surface of the burner, adjusting the flame to something low and blue, and emptied the contents of the canteen into the basin.

“There’s Aqua Cola in it?”

“Yeah. Its hot water and leaves brought to a boil. See?” she opened the small bag, tipping it to show him the brittle looking plants inside. He wasn’t sure what they looked like before, dried up and wrinkly now, yellows and faded white and what looked like stripped wire inside, but the smell was strong and pungent, and he recognized it easily from before. His nose wrinkled, and he heard her laugh.

“Don’t think I want it now.”

“What? Why not? You liked it fine yesterday.”

He shifted again, looking at the little burner, steam already rising from the bowl.

“Shit’s addictive. Not good for you.”

It was her turn to make a face at him, her lip curling in disgust, “Did you ever stop to think there’s a _reason_ we crave it? It’s good for you – our bodies are mostly made up of water.”

 “That’s crap.”

“It isn’t!” she twisted around, picking up one of the books she had set on the floor, and she flipped through the pages, her shoulders stiff with determination. Eventually she found the page she was looking for and turned the book to face him.

Slit blinked, squinted; he couldn’t understand the little scribbles all over the pages, foreign looking and messy, but he could easily make out the fine drawings.

Side by side were the figures of a man and a woman, stripped to nudity, their faces impassive, hands held with palms out. One half of them appeared to be missing their skin entirely, wet, red muscle exposed, teeth and eyeballs stark against their insides.

He peeked over the edge of the book at her, “Were they tortured?”

“What? No!” she turned the book back around, scanning the pages once more before she moved beside him, resting the edge of her rump against the bed. She bent at the waist so she could point to the page for him, her finger resting below a long series of scribbled words.

“See, right there? _In physiology, body water is the water content of the animal body that is contained in the tissues, the blood, the bones and elsewhere. By weight, the average human adult male is approximately sixty-percent water._ ”

He stared at the words, still unable to read them, unsure if she were lying to him – unsure if she was making it up.

“If we don’t get enough water, our bodies start to fail. We get weak, we get tired, and we get dizzy. We can’t fight sickness, and it just gets worse and worse until we die.”

Their eyes met again, and Slit suddenly knew she wasn’t just talking about the Aqua Cola anymore. She was talking about them, about the War Boys, about their soft deaths and their blood bags with their top-ups. If what the book said was true, that there was _water_ in the blood, then…

It made a certain sort of sense, and he didn’t want it to. But the Soft Shine was looking at him so intently, willing him to understand, to believe her. If she hadn’t looked so earnest, Slit thinks he might have been able to ignore it.

As it was he cleared his throat, rolling his eyes toward the burner and the bowl, steam now a constant flow from over the rim. The Soft Shine followed his gaze, quickly righting herself with a soft “oh” of breath as she tended to the hot Aqua Cola. She dipped the little bag of _tea_ inside the water and turned the flame off, the smell of the brew immediately floating around them. Slit inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling his throat tighten with want.

One sip and he knew he couldn’t go without it again. It was infuriating, in a way.

The silence between them grew, uncomfortable and tense, and Slit cleared his throat again, drawing her attention.

“Think you could spring me?” he asked, lifting his arms once more to show his chains. She only frowned at him. “Come on. I’m sick of lying here all the damn time.”

She cast her eyes to the side, looking to the old woman tending to another War Boy. _He_ was sitting up, not chained down to his bed, free to come and go as he pleased.

“C’mon, what could it hurt?”

She immediately zeroed in on him again, intense and serious, “Yourself. The Vuvalini. _Me_.”

Slit grunted then huffed a heavy breath.

“Couldn’t hurt you right now even if I wanted to, Soft Shine.”

“Don’t call me that.” She grumbled, but she stood anyway, moving back to his bedside.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice going quiet as she leaned across him to his far wrist, nimble fingers working on the latch.

Though small, the Soft Shine was radiating warmth that seemed to reach him all the way to his toes. Her skin pressed against his bare chest, delicate ribs poking into his sternum. She grunted and moved forward another inch, and he realized that she must be standing on her tip toes, needing the extra height to be able to reach. From somewhere inside him, he felt the temptation to pull his hand away, just far enough that she wouldn’t be able to touch it, just enough to irritate her.

He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. There was a sweet scent drifting around him now, mingling with the smell of the tea and the old pages of the books. He was pretty sure it was coming from her hair.

She grunted again, and finally he felt the clasp around his wrist loosen. He flexed his fingers and rotated his hand, ignoring the strange stab of disappointment as she slid back and away, leaving his other hand cuffed and standing on her own two feet again.

“It’s insulting.” She said, and Slit had to take a moment to reacquaint himself with their conversation.

“No it’s not. You’re Soft, aren’t you?”

Carefully she reached under his back then, her hand sliding palm up until her fingers could curl around his far shoulder, “Not as soft as you make me sound. I’ll bet I could kick your skinny butt back and forth across the Citadel if I really wanted.”

Slit used as much as his abdominal strength as he dared as she helped him into a sitting position.

“Not a chance. And that’s not what I mean.”

She eyed him curiously as she helped him swing his legs over the edge of the bed, keeping him braced as best she could.

“You’re not made for Hard things – war and fighting and guns and cars. You’re supposed to do Soft stuff.”

She cackled, a sound unlike anything Slit had ever heard in his life. It startled him, and he pulled away from her supporting arms, unsure what he had to done to make her make that sound.

“Glory be, War Boy, you really don’t know _anything_ do you?”

“Fuck off, I do so!”

“Oh yeah?” She leaned forward, her little nose jutting up, nearly bumping against his chin. Slit leaned away, eyes wide and staring at her.

The sweet smell was definitely coming from her hair.

“I’ll have you know I could pick those staples off your face at an easy four hundred yards. Maybe once you’re not so weak and soft yourself I’ll _show_ you.”

He smiled at her, wide and splitting, feeling his heart pound in his chest as his adrenaline began to spike. He had no idea who this little Soft Shine thought she was, but there was a razor’s edge in her eyes, and he knew without a doubt that she was serious. Whether or not she was exaggerating wasn’t the point – unlike the others he had seen, this breeder, this _Toast_ , wasn’t the least bit afraid of him.

It wasn’t right, not the littlest bit. She was a Wife, she was Soft and Shine and beloved of The Immortan. She shouldn’t be there, leaning close to his face with defiance in her bones, challenging _him_ to a test of wills. She shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ him.

Yet there was no real harm, was there? Immortan Joe would return soon, and take her back to where she belonged. Maybe he could keep her safe for him in the meantime? Maybe she’d even let him.

“Couldn’t hit me,” he said, still grinning, “I’d kick up enough dust you couldn’t see for miles.”

She laughed at that, a short bark of it, before turning back to the tea, removing the bag from the hot Aqua Cola and setting it aside. She carefully poured the stuff into the two smaller bowls, and handed him one, sitting down comfortably on her stool.

Slit eyed the drink, still unsure of it. The smell was the same as before, and as he lifted it to his mouth the sensations returned to him again. Warmth. Smoothness. A strong flavor that sent a strange shiver across his skin. He wanted to down the whole thing at once, but he watched her over the rim of his bowl, how she took slow sips of it, savoring it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing it down. Maybe it was the right way to drink the tea? He followed her example.

They sat in silence again, and for the first time, Slit noticed the thin scar that ran across her right cheek.

“You get that shooting your guns?” he asked, meaning the question as a jibe, but her expression hardened, and he suddenly wished he could take it back.

“Actually, your precious Joe did that to me.”

He said nothing, staring at the scar, disbelieving. It must have shown on his face, because the Soft Shine continued, her voice rising in pitch.

“I pulled his hand back to keep him from shooting someone I cared about. He didn’t like it, so with all the strength he had – _whack_. Right across the face. Guess I wasn’t so important to him after all.”

Slit had no idea what to say to that. She was lying – it was obvious that she had to be. But she was also angry; angry to discuss it, angry he had brought it up, angry that she felt the need to tell him the story at all. If he wanted her to let him guard her, keep her safe for when The Immortan returned, he had to be careful.

In the end, he opted for the only response he could think of to right his mistake.

“Makes you more Shine than you already were, at least.”

 

 

For the life of her, Toast couldn’t figure him out. She hadn’t meant to threaten him, promising to shoot him in the face at her next opportunity, but unbelievably he seemed to _like_ that idea. He met her resistance with a will to match her own, and she could see the enthusiasm in his posture at the thought of a challenge between them. She had to admit, it was amusing and even a little exciting, the prospect of going toe to toe with him. She hadn’t been allowed to exercise her skills in quite some time, and despite her reassurances to Furiosa and her Sisters that she could handle a gun, they tried their best to steer her toward gentler pastimes.

Frankly, she was starting to go stir crazy with boredom.

Then Slit grinned at her, and she felt her pulse jumping.

It was too bad he had brought up her memories of Joe, of that horrific day in the canyon. She could still feel her bottom drop out as the Polecat dragged her from the Rig, sailing through the air and into the arms of Rictus and the Imperator. It reminded her easily of what he represented, what had hurt her so much over the past 365 days.

Then the stupid smeg went and paid her a compliment, and she felt her insides dip, just like they did in her memories. She blinked at him, trying to understand how he could go from an arrogant, shit-talking ass, straight into polite and friendly.

Well, maybe polite was the wrong word. _Civil,_ maybe. He certainly spared no pretty words for anyone else, from what she understood. She wasn’t even sure Slit had any compliments in his vocabulary to begin with.

She was about to thank him, confused though she was, when Melita seemed to pop up from nowhere.

“Hate to interrupt you two, but your War Boy here needs this.” She handed Toast a small tin jar, popping the top off for her. Inside was a milky green paste, the odor sharp enough to make her eyes water.

“Just apply it to the burns; nice thick layer of it. It should soak in on its own.” She said, and then started shuffling away.

“Hey! Wait! I don’t-“ Toast tried, but the Vuvalini was too far away then; or she was just ignoring her. Toast felt her muscles tense, slight panic climbing up her spine. She couldn’t be _serious._

Slowly, Toast turned to look back at Slit, and she struggled to keep from laughing. The expression on his face seemed to exactly mirror her own fear; he looked absolutely _scandalized_ by the idea, his eyes wide and his hand gripping his tea cup hard enough to make it shake. When he looked at her, she could see his lips part, as though he meant to speak, but no words came from him; just a soft, whistling breath.

Toast didn’t know what exactly it would take to get him to come around to their side, but she did know one thing: Slit would never back down from a challenge. What few friendships he had were built around competition and it was impossible to earn his respect any other way. For him, you were either worth his time, or you weren’t; there was no grey, and until one proved themselves to him, you were firmly on one side of the line.

And for him, for some insane reason, the best way to get him to rise to a challenge was through pure mockery.

“What’s the matter, War Boy? Afraid a little _Soft Shine_ like me will hurt you?”

Immediately his eyes narrowed, and the tension in his shoulders eased. She could physically see the changes in his demeanor, and she wanted to laugh. He was so _easy_.

“With hands as small as that? Getting’ hit by a blow torch spark would hurt worse than you.”

She hopped up from the stool, moving toward the bed, ready to taunt him again when he held up his free hand, his eyes going wide again.

“Doesn’t mean you can touch me! You’re not supposed to!”

Toast frowned then, tilting her head to the side, “You let me before, though. I helped you sit up. I lay across you.”

She watched, fascinated and shocked, as the blood bloomed across his cheeks and nose, his eyes darting away for a moment. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing; Slit was _blushing_.

“Couldn’t help that. This I can.”

She huffed, resting a hand against her hip, “Now you’re just being stubborn for the sake of it. You need this stuff, whatever it is, and Melita is apparently too busy to do it. I’m here, I’m available, and you don’t have much of an option right now.”

He glanced down at the jar in her other hand, then back up to her face. She could still see the hesitance there, and Toast softened her voice the smallest bit.

“Slit, please. You _need_ this. It’s important.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she watched his spine curl, and he nodded once, though she could still see the trepidation in his eyes. She crossed the rest of the way to the bed, her hand gently pushing on his shoulder to urge him to move over, to turn so he was facing the foot of his bed. She hopped up behind him, keeping one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling off the edge. It would require she twist her spine to reach the whole of his back, but she didn’t mind. He obviously wasn’t comfortable with her being so close, and keeping one foot near the floor seemed to be a good visual for him – a sign that she was ready to back off at any time.

When she saw the bared expanse of his back, Toast felt her breath leave her.

Slit wasn’t overly large – none of the War Boys were – but this close his back seemed incredibly ample. His shoulders were broad, lithely muscled and strong. Down his spine was a series of scars, cogs, steering wheels, and the ever present brand from Joe. She thought maybe they had once reached down to the small of his back, but they too, like the ones on his belly, were forever gone in the mess that was left of his skin.

Burns, slowly healing covered from his right shoulder down, running diagonal across his back and across. The flesh was puckered and mottled, blistering and full of fluid. She could see scabbing too, red and moist. She cringed, feeling a pang of sympathy for him. She understood the necessity of keeping him chained, but laying on this must have hurt him a great deal. She took a deep breath, and scooped some of the salve from the tin.

As soon as her fingertips touched him, he hissed, his back straightening as he jerked away. An apology was forming on her lips when he hunched back down, his voice rumbling from over his shoulder.

“S’cold.”

She smiled at him, though she knew he couldn’t see it, and carefully spread the medicine across his back.

It was strange, she thought, that this seemed so easy. His breaths were steady and slow, the rhythm of him almost melodic. Toast watched her hands, trancelike, slide over the length of him, her fingers spreading and curling, slick with medicine. The texture was bizarre – burnt flesh and cooling moisture against her palms. She could barely make out his ribs as she touched, the skin so thick with ruined flesh. She wondered if the scar tissue would harden more once it had healed, if that would further hinder his movement. She certainly hoped not. There was no doubt that Slit would work to reaffirm his position as a Lancer, no matter what circumstance tried to keep him from it; it would be a shame if he had even more riding against him.

She watched him shudder, his breath now forced from his lungs in a shaky manner, and Toast felt her insides pinch again.

“Sorry. I’m almost done.”

He didn’t respond, so she hurried the best she could, careful to keep her touches light and gentle. The cream evaporated as quickly as Melita had promised, and with a satisfied sigh, Toast slid off the bed, and capped the little tin.

Slit remained where he was, looking at her from over his shoulder. He still looked worried about what they had done, as though someone was going to come in and start berating him for allowing it to happen. Not wanting to leave him like that, she reached out once again, her hand pausing a few inches away when his eyes darted down toward it.

“Slit, it’s…” carefully she rest her hand across his forearm, feeling the muscle twitch beneath her palm, “Everything will be alright. You’ll see.”

When he didn’t answer her, only making brief eye contact with her, Toast decided that was her cue to leave. She gathered her things, leaving the remaining tea for him if he wanted it, and made her way back toward the exit.

On her way there, careful to make sure Slit wasn’t watching, and in the process, overhearing, she requested that they leave Slit unchained for the night. She didn’t know if it was the right thing to do, if they would all pay for it by morning, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if she knew he was forced to lie on those burns and suffer.

She wondered, later, if Slit would even appreciate the gesture.


	4. Chapter 4

_This is the hand that will blind your eyes and split your spine_  
_This is the blade that will visit your flesh and release the wine_  
 _You play with toys that have triggers_  
 _And you hear how the lead moves near_  
 _You play with razors and it hurts, it hurts_  
 _As you face your fears_

 

 

* * *

 

For hours Slit lay awake, his eyes staring blindly at the wall as the hags moved back and forth through the Blood Shed. Their voices were distant as they tended to the other War Boys, his mind reeling violently inside his skull. He hardly recalled one of the Vuvalini unlocking his other arm earlier in the day, how he just lay down on his side away from her, the lingering scent of the _tea_ wafting around him.

Over and over his memory replayed the visit from the Soft Shine, her insults, her stern scolding, her laughter. He recalled the way she had made his heart race, shine memories of adrenaline and speed and war fueling him; explosions and the stench of guzzoline filling his senses. He remembered how his heart had stuttered to a complete stop when her hands, cold from the medicine, began to caress his back; then how it seemed to shift into high gear the more her fingers curled against his skin. He remembered how his muscles went loose, and he almost asked her to stay, to not stop.

Then she touched him again, and he nearly gripped her wrist to keep her from going, whether she wanted to or not.

It was wrong; wrong, wrong, _wrong_. She was Full-Life, chrome and shine and Soft and too High for him. She was meant for the Immortan, for _only_ him, and he was certain these wants were going to keep him barred from Valhalla for even thinking about them.

But his mind, like his body, like that _fucking_ _Nux_ , was turning traitor on him and he had no idea how to make it end. He wanted her back, talking to him, showing him the drawings in the _books_ , threatening to shoot at him while he dodged over the sand. He was supposed to keep her safe for the Immortan, not _wonder_ and _think_ and _remember_ like this. How could he do his job when she had him torn up in his brain this way?

She had told the hags to unchain him. She let him loose and was trusting him to stay there.

He should be moving through the catacombs right now, cutting the throats of the filthy betrayers that walked without their paint, who honored Furiosa and had forgotten their God. He should sneak up into the tower, find his way to her and escape across the sand to Gas Town or the Bullet Farm. The Immortan was probably there, gathering his strength to retake his home. Maybe if he did that, maybe if he brought him one of his treasured Wives then he would be forgiven for these thoughts. It wasn’t his place to want; it wasn’t his place to look upon the Soft Shine and want to fucking smile.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the scent of the tea that hung around him like smoke. Beneath it was that sweet smell, the one he _knew_ came from her hair, and her face materialized behind his eyes again – small, shine, and fierce.

Of course she was fucking chrome – all the Breeders would be, to be worthy of the Immortan – but he never thought he’d have to face it like this. He thought that the Immortan was right, then, to keep them hidden away from anyone else. Anyone would want to keep them, keep _her_ , would trade anything they could to possess her. She was ferocious and strong and made a body’s blood race, made a body tighten and shake, and she’d be so fucking shine under his hands.

Slit clenched his jaw, curling his legs up as he felt the familiar sensation coil in his belly. His cock stirred defiantly as imagined pictures bounced around in his head; the Soft Shine on her back, sweat beading across her upper lip, eyes wild and bright like an explosion, his name whispered in the dark.

He snarled, balling his fists tight as he struggled against the surge of need. It was wrong, all of it, and he knew deep down to his bones that he was going to be punished for it. The thought made him angry, and it was enough to cool the flaring want; he was better than this, _stronger_ than this. He wasn’t about to let a bit of Shine ruin him. Valhalla still waited for him, and if he could keep her safe for the Immortan, then he knew he could find his place there. He just had to shake off the weakness she seemed to heap onto him, and then everything would be just fine.

The easiest way would be to ignore her, refuse her presence, maybe even try to scare her off, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible; not if he wanted to stay close enough to ensure her survival. Not if he wanted to get her out of there, and get her to Gas Town or the Bullet Farm. Besides, he was seriously beginning to doubt that the Soft Shine was actually afraid of anything.

No, if he wanted this to work, he had to keep close to her. He had to somehow convince her to _trust_ him.

He had to earn his way into the Dome.

Slit felt his muscles uncurl, relaxation beginning to ebb away at his consciousness, sleep creeping up on him. For the first time in countless days he finally felt soothed, no longer without a compass and filled with purpose. He had no idea if he was even capable of his plan, but at the very least, he could happily die trying. And dying in the service of the Immortan was the only way to make it to Valhalla.

Slit fell asleep, his last thought that of Immortan Joe, smiling down on him from on high.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Waste of good scrap, if ya ask me.”

Toast resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, a headache gently throbbing behind her eye sockets. The War Boy – Quip, if she remembered correctly – had been complaining at her for most of the afternoon. Since early that morning she had been down in the settlement, observing the Wretched and Boys alike as they dug trenches and built pathways, blocking out foundations for the little mud houses that Cheedo had helped design. The scrap Quip was referring to was mostly large sheets of vehicle siding, hammered and shaped to help build the walls that would be erected between the Citadel Pillars. It was a lot of work, and if Toast was honest, she almost agreed with him.

The scrap could be going to fixing their remaining vehicles, or building new ones. They would have to venture out eventually, make contact with whoever had taken over Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Unfortunately, he and the majority of the War Boys still held to the impossible notion that the Citadel was untouchable, and that their measly little watch towers with their pretty but finite turret guns was enough to keep them all safe forever.

Furiosa had decided, after holding council with the Wives, Nux and the remaining Imperators, that reaching out to the other settlements would have to wait. Security needed to be their priority.  It was unfortunate most didn’t see it that way. Like the War Boy following closely on her heels, grumbling about all the work they were putting in.

“I thought you Boys like to stay busy?” she grumbled right back at him as she adjusted the strap of her rifle over her shoulder. Quip kept up with her strides easily, though he remained at least half a step behind her. She wasn’t sure where the propriety came from – she had never had a chance to really observe War Boy culture – but she was somehow thankful for it. He was showing deference for her authority, even if he seemed to want to challenge it at every turn that day.

“Well yeah, ‘course we do. Just not by diggin’ holes and sewin’ together parts that should go on a new rig.”

Toast sighed, annoyed; she had heard this argument from him three times already that day, and she was growing tired of it.

“Quip, you know very well why we’re doing this. There aren’t enough of you left to defend the Citadel successfully. And we don’t have the resources to do supply runs _and_ build the wall.”

He muttered back at her, though Toast chose to ignore whatever words he had spoken. He wouldn’t refute her word directly, just tromped along with his head hanging down. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was pouting. It was an amusing thought, one she carried with her back into the much cooler shadows of the main tower, her stomach reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since sunrise.

Her belly grumbling and feet moving toward the Dome, she wasn’t prepared to suddenly find a War Pup running straight for her, his eyes wild and chest heaving with furious breaths.

“Sister Toast! Sister Toast! He’s-“ the Pup slid to a halt in front of her, barefoot and filthy like he had been playing in the muddy water near the repair bay. For all she knew, he probably had been. She cleared her throat, gently taking him by the shoulders as she knelt down to be on eye level with him. Whatever was going on had obviously put him into a panic, and she wanted to reassure him however she could.

“What is it, what’s the matter?”

The Pup sucked in a heavy breath, managing to stand at his full height again before he spoke.

“That War Boy – the sick one. The one you’ve been watching.”

Toast felt her insides grip, her heart stuttering for a moment, “Slit? You mean Slit? What happened?”

“He’s- he’s doing _something_!”

Toast wasn’t sure what to think, the Pup’s explanation painfully insufficient. In the end, she stood back up and took the child’s hand in her own.

“Show me.”

He led her through the tunnels surrounding them, far away from the Dome, her stomach protesting loudly. Thankfully, the sounds around them drowned out the growling in her belly, so she was able to ignore it. Her worry far overshadowed her hunger anyway, and she focused on their surroundings, making mental notes of the twists and turns they were making. She frowned when she realized that the Pup was leading her far and away from the main hub of paths, and when she questioned him, he told her that he was doubling back – making sure they came out behind Slit, so he wouldn’t realize they were there.

 _That_ worried her. What was he doing that the Pup felt they had to sneak up on him? She almost asked, but then they made another right turn, and suddenly he was _there._

Toast held very still as she spied him, at least twenty feet ahead of them down the tunnel. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his hand bracing most of his weight as he took careful steps forward, his other hand pressed to his belly – pressing over the stitches, Toast knew. He limped along, obviously in pain, but no less determined to keep moving. She simultaneously felt extreme sympathy for him, and a frothing rage that he was risking his life this way. For all she knew, one wrong step and his stitches would split, spilling whatever was left of his guts out on the sandy ground.

After all that work, all that time she and the Vuvalini had spent keeping him alive, and he was wasting it by wandering around like a sun-blind idiot.

Toast let go of the Pup’s hand, registering the sound of his sprinting feet running in the opposite direction as she stalked forward, her anger making her feel much bigger than she actually was.

“What in the dead-world do you think you’re _doing_?”

Slit stopped, twisting his neck to look at her over his shoulder. She expected defiance there, his usual serving of arrogance and bitterness, but his expression stopped her in her tracks. The tightness in his face immediately fled, replaced by an eager relief as he looked at her. He turned fully, leaning back against the wall as he exhaled a heavy breath.

“Was lookin’ for you.” He said, his voice hardly above a whisper. Toast felt her inside shift, surprise and confusion swarming through her as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat was pouring down his temple, dripping from his chin, and she had to wonder how long he had been up and moving.

“Why were you looking for me? You’re not ready to walk yet; you could _die_.”

He looked up at her again, exhaustion lining his face, “You didn’t come to the Blood Shed. Thought you were in trouble. Might’ve needed me-“ he clenched his teeth on the last word, a sharp hiss escaping him as he gripped his side tighter, his muscles tensing with a sudden surge of pain. Toast was beside him in an instant, her arm winding behind his back for support as she slowly eased him down to the ground. He gasped and panted as she shifted him, their hands unconsciously seeking each other out. Toast tried to ignore the pain as he squeezed her fingers tightly through the wave of agony he felt.

She stroked her thumb across his jaw and cheek, shushing him with soft whispers as they waited for the surging ache to pass through him. Eventually his muscles fell lax, his chest still panting breaths as he let his head rest against the rock wall. Toast shifted to sit more comfortably, keeping her hand in his.

“Slit, you can’t _do this_ again. You need time to heal.”

He swallowed once, his throat bobbing and sharp against the thin skin of his neck.

“I know. Hurts to fangin’ _breathe_.”

“Then why’d you do it, you idiot smeg? Are you trying to kill yourself or something?”

His eyes rolled, turning toward her, his head tilting against the wall with the movement. He was so exhausted from his trek that he couldn’t even hold his own head up straight.

“I was heading to the Dome. Gotta be useful.”

Toast huffed, suddenly wanting to fist her hands on her hips and level him with a glare she usually reserved for misbehaving Pups. She wondered if that would actually work on him.

“Slit, you’re of no use to _anyone_ if your stomach opens up and your guts spill out.  What do you think you could do like this anyway?”

His eyes darted away from hers, then; his brows pinching and his mouth turning down into a frown. It was obvious he hadn’t thought that far ahead, and again Toast huffed, disbelieving the stupidity of War Boys.

She watched him clench his fist, his expression turning sour “Nux is up in the Dome. He’s helping you. Why can’t I?”

Toast mirrored his frown, relaxing back on her heels.

“Because not only is Nux already mostly healed, he’s proven himself trustworthy. You on the other hand tried to bite my fingers off the first time we met.”

Slit’s eyes moved down to his lap where their fingers were still loosely laced together, resting against his thigh. His grip tightened marginally, and he still refused to meet her stare. They were quite for a time, and Toast wondered if he actually felt guilty for his actions, or if he was just pouting because his old Driver had once again surpassed him in something. It was an obvious sore spot between the two, and it wasn’t clear if they would ever get past it in the future, now that there was a future to be had.

He sighed then, resting his head back against the rock, letting his eyes close.

“How’m I supposed to be trusted if you won’t gimme a chance? Nux tried to kill Furiosa at first, too.”

Toast held her breath, her lips thinning as the truth of it struck her. He was right – Nux _had_ been their enemy for a time, trying to strangle the Imperator and steal them back for Joe. He had tried three times, in fact, and only after his final failure had he been so broken inside that he realized there might be another way. She could still remember the look of weary hope in his eyes as she held the pistol on him; it was that same look that kept her from firing like Furiosa had told her to when he hopped from the Rig to wrap the winch line around the rotted old tree.

And now Slit was radiating that same, timid hope. If what he said was true, that he just wanted to help, wanted to be useful, then who was she to deny him that? They’d never know unless he was given a chance.

She squeezed his fingers with her own, smirking a little when she spoke, “Well, I certainly can’t trust you to stay in bed, now can I?”

He slowly peeled a single eyelid open, giving her a halfhearted glare. She laughed at his expression, pleased to see the tension in him loosening further. She scooted closer to him, and he closed his eye again.

“Slit, listen – if you really want to help, then I’m pleased. We need all the help we can get right now. But you can’t do anything when you can barely stay on your feet. Please, _stay_ in the Blood Shed until you can walk more than ten feet without passing out.”

He grunted at her and she felt his muscles twitch, as though he wanted to cross his arms but lacked the strength, “Walked more’n triple that. Woulda made it to the Dome too if that damn Pup hadn’t snitched on me.”

“That ‘damn Pup’ probably saved your life, you know.”

He rolled his head again, facing her and opening both his eyes. Toast felt her insides freeze at his look – it was so focused, so determined it made the hairs on her arms stand on end, her heart stuttering.

“You wouldn’t let me die, Soft Shine. I know you won’t.”

Her heart sped right back up, her mouth wetter than she had ever remembered it being. Suddenly where their hands were clasped grew too hot, a burning pocket of contact that she was far too aware of. Toast was so busy examining this strange feeling overtaking her that she hardly even registered his strange nickname for her.

“Not-“ she turned her head away, unable to keep meeting his stare, “Not if I can help it, no.”

She felt his hand squeeze around her own again, this time the pressure did not lessen for a long time, and Toast wondered if the pressure suddenly surrounding her heart ever would, either.

Eventually, they caught the attention of another passing War Pup, and Toast directed him to fetch some of the older Boys who were working in the Blood Shed. Slit glared and snarled as they approached him, but at her admonishing look, he allowed them to lift him. When they tried to carry him he raised a fuss loud enough that Toast eventually allowed him a compromise. They would support him, but he would be allowed to keep his feet on the ground.

Appearances were important to him, obviously.

As they made their way back to Slit’s sick bed, Toast did her best to ignore the sidelong looks from the Vuvalini; the ones that screamed “I told you so”. She kept her eyes only on Slit, making sure the War Boys were gentle as they helped him back onto the thin mattress. His frame shook from the exertion, and she could still see the sweat beading across his forehead. Immediately she was beside him, cool water soaked on a clean rag, carefully wiping it away. He kept his own eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose, exhaling with each touch.

She frowned, pausing briefly as she looked at his face; wane even without the paint, the lines in his skin looking as deep as the scars across his cheeks.

“You couldn’t seriously have done this just because you were worried about me.”

He peeked at her through a single cracked eyelid and he squirmed a little under her hand, obviously uncertain.

“Yeah, so?”

“Slit I’m perfectly fine; perfectly safe. Nothing’s going to happen to me here.”

“Don’t know that. Attacks happen. Boys could resent you. Could trip and fall down the stairs for all I know.”

She frowned deeper, though it was mostly for his benefit; she could recognize a somewhat playful jab when she heard it.

“Well, even if any of that happened, what’s it to you? I thought you hated me.”

He grunted, noncommittal, his shoulders giving a weak shrug.

“So you _don’t_ hate me?”

He snorted, tilting his head to gaze at her through half-closed eyelids. The exhaustion was evident on him everywhere she could see.

“You should shut up now, Soft Shine – if you don’t want me to die, then you should stop boring me to fuckin’ _death_.”

Toast’s head snapped up as she heard a sharp bark of laughter from the far corner of the Blood Shed. It was another War Boy, assisting Melita in wrapping a tourniquet. He quickly avoided her gaze, looking embarrassed but now less amused. Toast felt her skin heat with flush, and she cleared her throat as she stood.

“Okay, yeah; I’ll be by later with dinner for you if you want.”

Slit grunted again, though she could see by the slow rise and fall of his chest that he was quickly drifting off to sleep. Without conscious intent, Toast found herself pressing her palm to his forehead again. He stiffened only briefly, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he grew accustom to the touch. Eventually he relaxed again, a heavy breath exhaled through his nose, and Toast took that as permission to continue.

Carefully she traced her fingertips across his brow and down to his temple, her hand curling to cup against his cheek. Slit’s eyes opened once more, clouded from exhaustion, fighting to remain in focus. She felt at a loss, unsure where the need to touch, to comfort came from. She only knew it welled up within her, had her hand stroking his skin as sleep crept up on him.

In the end, she left without a word, the soft sound of his snores following after her.


End file.
